Project Vulkan
by zipscool
Summary: 'The Man who Beat the IS'... blech, I hate that title, not least because it's entirely undeserved and mostly because it's blown completely out of proportion. Oh, sorry, you didn't come to hear about that. Project Vulkan. All right then, let me tell you about a project designed expressly to 'equalize' the balance of power. I hope you got time cause this is going to be a long story.
1. Bleeding Metal

**I have extremely mixed feelings about writing this, on the one hand there's great potential for storytelling in the universe behind the series proper, on the other we've got the cack-handed 'harem comedy' that is the series proper… I've got an entire essay on that but I won't have you guys suffer through it because that's not really what you came here for.**

**Despite my reservations (and there were many), here's the story. Enjoy. If not, tell me why not and maybe I can work on making it better so you might be able to enjoy future updates.**

**Project Vulkan**

**Chapter One: Bleeding Metal**

I'm relatively sure that, had certain events not taken place much longer beforehand (such as my parents bumping uglies together on a dark, cold New Year's Day just under 27 years ago), then the events that I'm about to relate to you probably would not have happened. Or maybe they would and you'd just be listening to some other prat drone on instead of me. My gut tells me French, or American, maybe Japanese if they've not had enough playing the centre of attention these days and considering they've found a male kid able to pilot one of the things stirring up so much trouble on this earth then I doubt that's the case.

It starts, funnily enough, with a young woman. Not just any young woman though; a genius who comes about maybe once every dozen, maybe even every hundred generations; someone who manages to bring about real _change, _real advancement for the species as a whole. Space-faring technology allowing us to freely manoeuvre and work in the cold, black void. Perhaps in enough time this technology would even have led us to even greater spacefaring wonders and those of us who'd ever seen Star Wars or Star Trek or Stargate would be able to one day live out the Space Captain fantasies of our childhoods.

Only we went and turned these things into battlesuits so we could keep flinging mud and explosives at each other. Smart.

The weaponisation of the IS and their female-only pilot requirement is what's currently got me hovering over the middle of the Pacific Ocean in something twice as large and only half as powerful as a standard Third-Generation IS, which, by measure, probably wouldn't even be able to stand up to a First-Generation model. To compound matters further, my only backup is four other units similar to mine – each in various states of damage – and an Australian IS pilot who, even at her top speed, is still more than half an hour away from the combat zone.

By the time she gets here me and my fellows will probably be little more than chunks decorating the ocean floor. The only consolation is that our opponent's bones will probably be joining ours once Claire makes her entrance and I've no doubt her vengeance will be a swift and terrible thing to behold… probably. I'd like to think we've gotten fairly close over the couple of months we've known each other.

One of the opposing IS' cuts through a Vulkan in the time it took me to think all of that, which was probably less than a heartbeat. IS units are scary machines. In my heads-up-display the vital signs of one Yani Grover wink out of existence. I snarl; my fury at his untimely demise made all the more potent by mine and this infernal machine I'm piloting's lack of ability to sufficiently engage the Infinite Stratos. If I could only close with the blasted things; if this bucket of bolts was only quick enough then I might stand a fighting chance.

Another Vulkan's vital signs, this one belonging to one Vijesh Nair, blink out. Over the comms we hear his death message – a pathetic gurgle laced with static as his Vulkan collapses in on itself. We're dropping like flies and it's barely been ten seconds. Forget half an hour, we won't last five minutes at the rate things are going.

I spot a tiny island cluster below us, more than a thousand feet below us. I mutter some incoherent praise for the auto-senses the Vulkan grants its pilots. Like everything else on this contraption it's nowhere near the level of an IS unit but it's infinitely better than flying with just the naked eye.

I open my comms to the two other survivors:

'Lead to survivors: spread out wide and make for that island cluster to the…' I glance at the transparent compass displayed on my HUD, conveniently located above a little 3D miniature map, 'South-East. Evasive pattern. Move!'

By the time I finish a beam bright as the sun spears another Vulkan through its midsection, and Travis Connell goes to meet whatever maker it is he believes in. I and the other survivor – a mousey little bastard I know as Reg, I never bothered to learn his surname – dive with all our speed towards the tiny archipelago. If we can make it – scratch that, if _I _can make it, Reg has just bitten the dust – I might be able to use the terrain to ambush our attackers. I'd wager quite comfortably that the ladies piloting those IS's have next to no experience on a good old fashioned ground war… now I just have to pray that my trump card will do what the Stonewall techies say it will.

'Isty-bitsy spider climbing up the spout…' I hear a voice taunt over my comms, I just stop myself from groaning. I know that voice, it's been haunting our entire operation for longer than I care to remember.

'Down came the rain and flushed the spider out!'

One of the engines on my unit explodes as an energy beam lances through it. It's an immaculately placed shot, designed only to take the engine out, not damage the Vulkan itself. I'd almost be impressed but for the fact I almost span entirely out of control. I've now got three engines left and I'm still a good way away from the island cluster, if that freak takes out–

Yeah, there goes another engine. The pilot's compartment is now bathed in amber light and those damned damage alarms won't shut the hell up. I _know _I've lost two engines I can see it on the fucking damage report that pops up on my HUD, obstructing my vision every time something explodes.

A sleek, black IS appears in front of me. Almost immediately following its sudden appearance the other three IS units following it seem to materialise around me. I lurch my Vulkan to a halt in mid-flight and realise that these bastards were simply toying with us. We were so low a threat they didn't even bother to utilise their full power against us, toying with us and picking us off at their leisure. That in itself is almost as infuriating as our lack of ability to do anything about it.

The voice from earlier crackles through my comms; her Japanese accent is thick, but her amusement (_amusement!) _is plain to hear.

'My thanks for the target practice; my friends haven't had these things long, they needed to work out the kinks.' If it weren't for the fact I'd most assuredly be reduced to atoms then I'd lunge for her neck this very second.

'What the hell do you want Kanon?' I ask the psychotic woman piloting the black IS in front of me. It materialises a large blade in one hand, which is almost as big as the Vulkan is tall, before pointing it squarely at the pilot's compartment at the centre of the Vulkan.

The woman piloting the black IS would probably be pretty were it not for her pallid features, her beady, brown eyes, the ugly sneer stretching said features, or her gangly physique that made it seem like she'd taken a ride on a medieval torture rack… okay so she wasn't pretty at all but her long, black hair was nice. Shame it resided on a head like hers.

'That mech,' Kanon said bluntly, all mockery gone and her face deathly serious, 'you step out; we take it and leave you alive. No one gets hurt.'

'Except the four men you just killed,' I muttered darkly.

_My men…_

'Naturally,' Kanon chuckled lightly.

'Why mine? Why not the others?' I asked.

'Oh Grayson,' Kanon sighed, 'please tell me you don't expect us to play this game. We know you had your unit modified.'

I suppose I should be shocked, but I'm not. Not really. I'd guessed they had a mole in Stonewall; they seemed to appear far too often at the worst possible times for it to be mere coincidence. Everyone else suspected it too, but despite our reservations the Stonewall Executive Board of Directors insisted the project continue despite the dogged attacks. It was entirely down to the skill of Claire Eckhart that the project had survived this long, but she was a long way away now.

Phantom Task… were four of its members not staring me down with weapons capable of destroying me in mere nanoseconds I'd have laughed. I understood what they were suggesting with it but really, _Phantom Task_… it's not exactly as catchy as 'Taliban', or 'The Seven Kings', hardly the sort of name I'd expect to strike terror into the hearts of civilised people.

'Hand it over,' Kanon snapped, her blade not wavering for a moment, 'now!'

'Surely you don't expect me to do it over five-hundred feet above the ocean,' I retorted, and almost as soon as the words left my mouth I felt my lips tug and form a sly smile. I had a plan. A stupid plan to be sure, but if it worked it might very well see me out of this alive and the Vulkan system in the hands of a slightly saner organisation.

'Fine, if you're going to be such a baby I'll promise you that, once you're safely out of the mech, one of my girls here will drop you safely off a few lengths from one of those islands below us. Happy?'

Right. Sure. I don't know you as well as some Kanon, but I know enough about you to know that any promise that comes out of your mouth is worth dog crap. If I'm going to die, I'll do it giving you the biggest birdie your beady little eyes will ever see.

I sigh, deliberately heavily over the comms. I only just stop myself smirking upon seeing Kanon's smug, victorious grin. You've got the better machine, no doubt about that, but it doesn't make you psychic.

And it certainly doesn't make you invincible.

In a heartbeat I engage what the Stonewall Techies have dubbed 'The Void'. This genius piece of tech was developed entirely by accident on a hot summer's day, and it shorts out and disables the hyper-senses of any IS unit within a hundred metres of my Vulkan. Suddenly those bitches surrounding me are fighting without their near 360 degree field of vision, and without view magnification. All they have to guide them is the naked eye. The sudden change from being able to see almost everything to being yanked back to your regular bog-standard human eyesight, is disorienting, or so Claire tells me.

Kanon falters for a moment, briefly unsure of what's going on. She then shoots me a glare so piercing it chills me. The feeling is immediately overwhelmed by the surge of energy that courses through my body at finally being able to strike at the witches. Years of combat instinct take over and I pluck the Vulkan's combat knife from its sheath on the unit's ankle. There is no fancy movement, no spinning of the blade for any attempt at such theatrics in this bulky mechanised suit would see me drop the weapon and my chance vanish before my eyes.

Kanon recovers quickly though and the blade passes over the top of her head as she drops several feet in the air to avoid my attack. I continue arcing the blade however, and plunge it straight through the shields of the IS unit to my left. The weapon stops an inch from the woman's bare skin, the IS' absolute defence kicking in and locking the unit up. She drops like a rock and I cackle at the jubilant feeling of finally being able to dish out retribution for all the crap these people have put us through.

I spin the Vulkan in the air, wheeling on the other two IS units, one of which has materialised a short-barrelled submachine gun and has levelled it at my face. I slap the weapon aside with my superior reach and the burst she lets off catches her friend, who recoils a little as the shots impact against her shields. The knife lances through the shields of the shooter and she goes to join her friend for a dip in the Pacific.

The last of Kanon's evil little helpers appears to realise that she needs to back away and her thrusters flare but I lash out with my Vulkan's free arm, giving her a vicious hook that further disorients the pilot but doesn't do any real damage to her shields. Two quick thrusts from the blade in my hand changes that and a third IS plummets earthward, the pilot unable to do more than scream curses at me in her native tongue.

I don't bother turning to fight Kanon, she'll come to me, I'm certain of it. Instead, I blast towards the island cluster with all the speed that my two remaining engines will allow.

I get to about two-hundred feet above ground before she's back on top of me.

'I'm going to tear you out of that tin can, rip your head off and floss my teeth with your spine!'

How colourful.

'Good luck,' I bait, though I know that even with her hyper-senses dulled, she's still piloting a vastly superior machine to the one I'm using. Even more to the point; she's been piloting for much, much longer than I have in a machine I assume is infinitely easier to use than the clumsy Vulkan.

Another alarm and another confounded damage report tells me that my Vulkan is now missing an arm. That will make combat rather more difficult I imagine, particularly if–

My train of thought is interrupted by the screeching of metal and pain exploding across my gut. There's a rather long, sharp object that's impaled my Vulkan and, by extension, myself. Goddamn that hurts.

'You still alive in there?' Kanon's voice, dripping with liquid malevolence, taunts over the open comms. The blade (at least, I think it's a blade, rather hard to tell when you're trying not to pass out from pain) twists sharply and I have to bite my lip hard enough to draw blood to stop myself crying out.

'I'm going to drag you back to our base and me and my friends are going to cut you out of there… and when they do…' the threat in her voice could have chilled a robot.

It's at that point I see her, and even though it hurts like a bitch to even breathe, I begin to laugh.

'She's early,' I manage to gasp out.

'What are you talking about?' Kanon asks sharply. I realise that the Void is still engaged, the poor bitch has no clue what's coming, and that makes me laugh harder. It's a horrible, wet sound and it agonises me like nothing else ever has.

'What is so goddamn–!'

She doesn't get to finish.

Claire Eckhart slams into Konan's unit with all the force of an angry God. She drops the blade and I feel myself falling.

'Elliot! You in there?' Claire asks over the comms, she sounds worried; it doesn't suit her in the slightest.

'Hey…' I manage to say, still in free-fall, 'gonna take a nap now. Wake me when it's over.'

'Oh it's over,' Claire practically seethes, 'this psycho just doesn't know it yet.'

I don't hear her answer. I don't hear the clash of blades and the roar of gunfire overhead. I don't feel the impact as my Vulkan strikes the surface of the Pacific and begins to sink. I don't feel the water seep in and begin to flood the pilot's compartment. I don't see Kanon's IS, broken and battered; flee the airspace from the brutalising that Claire dished out. I don't see her dive towards the ocean, her hyper-senses searching for me and my comrades. I don't see her fish my unit from the depths and cradle what's left of my machine to her IS as she powers home.

I'd passed out long before then.

**-X-**

**I've taken, and will probably take a few more creative liberties with the IS and what information I've taken from the Wiki. Those of you who actually read this shit will probably spot those, though in future releases I do plan to address one or two of these so if you'll just bear with me on those.**

**There's also a reference to a simply outstanding Thriller/Horror series, to say I'm simply a fan of said series would be a severe understatement; otherwise I'd have no reason to point it out in the end-of-story author's notes. Hell the main reason I even mentioned it was because I think it's so good that you people should give it a read.**

**Rambling time over. Those of you expecting an update to one of my other stories on this site will have to wait a bit, I'm sure back in that wonderful little world we call reality you're all equally busy even if you don't celebrate the holiday. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays folks.**

**Cheers.**


	2. The Myth, the Meeting, and the Island

**Project Vulkan**

**Chapter Two: The Myth, the Meeting, and the Island**

I was Army; Parachute Regiment. But that was practically an entire age ago, one where flying suits piloted by attractive teenaged girls was just the fanciful delusions of overly hormonal boys with creative licenses that should have been revoked long ago. The First Battalion provided me with all the things a dirty little working-class guttersnipe from Northampton could never have no matter how hard he worked. It also provided me with a family, and gave real meaning to the word, some faces to go with it.

Then this family died. IED trap. We pursued a recognised insurgent through the Afghanistani countryside and the next thing I know we're under fire with explosions going off all around us. I survived only because one of my family crawled on top of me – him with his insides spilling out onto the dusty ground – and hunkered over me, shielding me. Fuckers must have thought I was dead. Their mistake.

And I made them pay for it. Three weeks in recovery before I stole away with as much as I could and I hunted every one of those bastards down. I didn't kill them. I _crucified _them. They'd taken my family from me and for that a blood toll was in order. Torture was an understatement, and while I'm far from proud of what I did in that long, bloody week, I don't regret it. I walked back out of Helmand caked in blood and with a butcher's grin on my face.

My trial took place almost immediately. Families of the deceased cried and howled for my blood, one nut and his nut friends actually attacked the 'court-house' as it was. I cut my restraints, slaughtered five of the arsewipes and gutted the leader with his own knife to send him to join his cousin or brother or whoever in hell with the rest of the psychos. In recognition of my assistance in the defence of what was a rather precious military installation I was left with a dishonourable discharge and exile. MI6 spook told me never to show my face in Britain or around British Forces again if I knew what was good for me.

I probably would have starved to death on a street in the Arabic States with jihadists hounding my every step had someone not launched over two-thousand warheads at every major city in Japan, and if someone hadn't stopped those warheads single-handedly with the use of only a single machine. As it was, my crimes, my name, my very existence was overshadowed by the appearance of this new, fearsome technology. As it happened everyone focused on acquiring this 'Infinite Stratos', leaving me to try and find myself a new niche.

I turned once more to the craft of death. The name Elliot Grayson became associated not with Elliot Grayson: War Criminal, but Elliot Grayson: Soldier of Fortune. I made my trade in all kinds of battlefields in places you probably can't even pronounce, and I got good at it. Few were as keen shots or as brutal combatants as I was and eventually I was getting offers not just from PMCs and Intelligence Spooks, but insurgent organisations as well.

It was working for one of these that I first encountered the IS in combat, and from that encounter sprouted a myth that has long since passed from flattering to the ridiculous.

It was back in Afghanistan, funnily enough. I was hired for a not inconsiderable sum to help train guerrillas. What was I doing helping the people who likely helped killed my family in First Battalion? I really don't know. Much of my time in the seven years following my discharge passed by in a haze for me, I did things others might describe as illogical. It certainly wasn't for the cash, the amount they offered paled in comparison to the assassination of a liberal Italian Newscaster or the guarding of an illicit arms deal in California. Hell, some of the people I worked with might very well have been related to the men I butchered all those years ago.

Eventually the allotted time passed and my insurgent employers made me another offer: they were going to demonstrate the results of their training by attacking and making an example of a Police Station who refused repeatedly to accede to their demands. What these demands were I didn't know, they never explained them to me and I didn't really care much either, but they asked me to observe the attack (a fancy way of indirectly informing me that they were setting me up for execution in order to prevent a possible intelligence leak to the occupying Western powers). We started the operation at roughly 0700 local time.

Things went wrong shortly after that.

The police station was burned to the ground, with many of the officers who hadn't fled dead and those still breathing were soon going to wish they weren't. The predicted response was an American Army unit stationed roughly ten miles out of town. They didn't.

Instead, an American IS unit – one of the 467 in known creation – blasted into town.

Half the insurgents were dead in seconds.

I'd done my reading; we didn't have much of a hope in hell of fighting that thing so I did what any sensible commander would do in that situation: fall back. In the mountainous countryside we might still not be able to fight back, but there were far more places to hide from even the IS' Hyper-Senses (and the insurgents, who I knew didn't plan on letting me live).

We never made it to the mountains.

The distinctly one-sided battle took place just before the hills, with a screaming insurgent pitching to the earth never to rise again every other second. Finally they were all dead, and it was just little old me versus the deadliest machine humanity has ever conceived thus far.

Instinct drilled into my head from years of experience in conflicts of various degrees of viciousness all across the globe saved me. I threw myself aside just before the explosive could turn me into little red chunks but my gun was fried. The machine advanced through the cloud of dust it had created, the pilot wanted to make sure I was dead. It was like watching Death himself come for me, and for a moment, I thought with absolute certainty that those were my final moments on Earth.

Then my fingers curled around something in my tatty pack, and thumbed the switch by accident. The device – an improvised EMP, still no idea what that was doing in there – short-circuited the IS' shields and activated the machine's absolute defence mechanism, locking it up entirely. The machine had seemed to stop suddenly before gradually tilting over and falling unceremoniously to the ground.

Stunned by my good fortune, I'd risen to my feet. I should have just run but curiosity overcame me and I stepped closer to observe the fallen machine and its struggling pilot, who was offering some pretty choice words and promises of mutilation once she got out of the battle-suit. I don't know how long they had been observing the exchange but someone with a camera took a snap shot – a photo that spread across the globe – of my person, dressed like any other Afghanistani insurgent, with my features all too clear to see, standing over the fallen IS like a knight standing over the carcass of the dragon from tales of old.

The incident – and the story and images that accompanied it – catapulted me back into the spotlight. I was held up as a hero by males across the globe, I had several requests from some male celebrities to shake their hands, offers from various nations to serve as part of a bodyguard detail or Armed Forces Advisor, too much to remember. I still find it strange how no one addresses, or has addressed, the issue of what I was actually doing fighting an IS unit in the first place.

I enjoyed it for the first month or so. The respect downtrodden males gave me, the gifts and the increases to my payment offers. Hell it even pulled me some tail, lot of chicks dig alphas and at that time, I was the ideal. Then after that month it got tiresome, and I realised that being world-famous wasn't particularly good for my career as a gun for hire. I was idolised by thousands, but my everyday movements were being watched. I found myself having to turn down ludicrously high-paying operations for various employers because simply walking into the guy's mansion would bring a SWAT team on his head.

There was also the occasional assassin.

It was mostly restricted to whenever I was in Afghanistan (zealous jihadists made the connection that the 'IS-killer Elliot Grayson' and the 'Murderous Psychopath Elliot Grayson from several years ago' were one and the same), but eventually it began to happen in other places too. Not often enough to make me a recluse, but enough to make me wary of anything that, a year ago, I'd have jumped at without another thought. It wasn't just restricted to the ragheads either. So far I've had to neutralise and put down no less than five well-armed and well trained units of men who are written off as dead by their governments the moment I disable them.

You can imagine that all this led to me being one charming individual.

Up until yesterday I'd spent a brief stint in Helmand – a place I'd rather not have returned to – working as an advisor for a USMC outfit. This particular assignment was without doubt one of the more tedious, and now the three-week assignment was over I had kicking back in a fancy hotel (or as fancy as it could get in Helmand Province) waiting for the next email to tell me where I was going next and how much it'd be worth.

That was just under twenty minutes ago.

I was currently sitting in a tiny café in Yar, waiting for the man who'd supposedly give me the details for another job. I was more than sceptical, especially considering that it gave no detail as to the exact pay or the specifications as to what it all entailed. Ordinarily I'd never have considered the email, dismissing it either as a blatantly obvious trap or a lousy job. What made this different however was the name attached to the email.

Matthew Reynard.

The guy's a spokesperson, and a well-known spokesperson at that, for the Company 'Stonewall', an Electronics giant that blasted into the market a few years ago and has made stride after stride to tower over even well-established franchises like Sony and Samsung. The question of what such a company would want with a war maker like myself intrigued me.

'Sorry I'm late, bad traffic.'

The voice belonged to the man himself; quite literally the entire reason I had even bothered to attend this little meeting. He was a not unattractive gent who looked far younger than his age of thirty-four. He was dressed casually, a strange sight to me as I'd only ever seen him on the TV in a suit, in a hideous red and white Hawaiian short-sleeved shirt and a white undershirt, with faded jeans and dark shades that completely concealed his eyes from view. His shocking blonde hair was slicked back, and a winning smile seemed to be plastered to his face.

First impressions are… bad.

He took a seat opposite mine, and it was then that I noticed he'd brought a friend. The young woman didn't sit; she stood just a little behind Reynard. Bodyguard? Either she's packing an IS somewhere or she's much tougher than she looks. I gauged her appearance: strawberry blonde hair that fell in appealing curls just above her neckline, amber eyes, face from out of a model's catalogue, nearly perfectly proportioned from what I could tell in her casual tan cargo shorts and baggy white tee. Very much to my liking.

Which meant that she was almost certainly an IS pilot.

I took a moment to wonder how it was that no ugly girls seemed to be able to pilot an IS. Did their insane creator impose a beauty requirement on the IS cores or something? 'No girls below 7/10'? I almost chuckled at the thought.

'Matthew Reynard,' he introduced himself, extending his hand towards me. I shook it after a cautious moment.

'This is Claire Eckhart,' he motioned towards the woman standing behind him, 'Australian IS Division.'

'I wasn't aware Australia had an entire Division dedicated to the IS,' I remarked, raising an eyebrow, 'or any nation for that matter.'

'There's only about a hundred of us. Twenty with the capacity to pilot and the rest on support,' said Claire, the distinctive twang of her homeland lacing her every word.

'Right… so what does an electronics company and an Australian IS pilot want with a wound maker like me?' I asked.

'Claire's working with us. We've leased her; so to speak, from the Australian Military under the pretence of developing IS technology that we'd be happy to grant to Australia first, as well as any additional advances made,' Reynard explained matter-of-factly.

'So, what, you're telling me you aren't?'

'In a manner of speaking,' Reynard said with a wry grin.

'I'm not sure if I like the sound of this,' I told the pair, leaning back in my chair, folding my arms.

'Why not? I've got your dossier Grayson, and you've done things that could get you locked up in no less than nineteen different nations,' he lowered his gaze and his grin faltered a fraction, 'could _still _get you locked up.'

'With all of those I knew exactly what I was headed into,' I told him, 'here you expect me to go along with it without telling me a thing except that you're keeping one big mother of a secret from the Aussies.'

I stood up fairly quickly.

'Sorry, but I'm going to ask you to piss off.'

Claire looked ready to make a move but Reynard stopped her with a gesture. The spokesperson sighed heavily.

'Well, it appears we won't be working together then. Shame, but I'll respect your decision. See you around Mr Grayson,' he said as I stalked away.

**-X-**

'I thought we were going to tell him about the ambush gang,' Claire said, taking the seat Elliot had occupied only moments before.

'What? Tell him we'll protect him from the threat of a bunch of amateurs we happened to overhear talking by the side of the road? Stupid plan. That guy's been dealing with people like them most of his career, I don't think a few more will make him–' he stopped and placed a finger next to the earpiece sitting in his right ear. He listened attentively for a few moments before a smile spread across his face.

'Well now… that _is _interesting,' he turned his attention back to Claire.

'Tail him from up on high, act on your own discretion as long as it keeps Grayson alive, if everything goes to plan we'll be able to wrap this whole business up before the end of the morning!' Matthew said, rubbing his hands together gleefully as he pictured all the pieces falling in place.

**-X-**

I'd got no further than the street corner before I realise I was being tailed. Call it paranoia if you want but this little habit of actively scanning my environment every minute or so has helped keep me alive in what is traditionally a very messy business in the best of circumstances. The five guys kept equal pace with me and were glowering at me with every step of the way.

I didn't feel much like being tailed all the way back to the hotel so I figured I'd have to drop them all. Starting a gunfight in a bustling town wouldn't help me in the slightest, so I'd need to be quiet about it. Spotting a side alley, I made a show of taking my smartphone from my pocket and pretended to answer it, stepping into the alley to make it appear as if I was simply getting out of the noise. As soon as I rounded the corner I found a little nook in the side of the alley and waited.

Sure enough, scant seconds later footsteps came scampering through the alley, three passed my hiding place, two with short, curved daggers in their hands and one with a taser. I made my move when I heard the fourth closing in.

Darting from cover, I practically jumped in the face of the fourth member of the kill team, with the fifth at his back. None of them seemed a year older than twenty. I threw out a quick jab, catching the confused kid in the throat. He dropped to his knees, clutching his neck and gasping for air. The fifth shouted a warning and made to reach inside his jacket. I powered towards him, closing with him before he could draw the gun. A flurry of punches to his midsection staggered him; while a vicious right hook put him down.

The sound of rushing footsteps told me one was almost at my back. I pivoted and swung myself to the side just as my attacker made a jab with the taser, aiming to both tackle and stun me in one go. My sudden movement cost him his balance, and a swift, brutal kick to his chin shattered his jaw. As he reeled and gasped at the pain lancing through his face I grabbed hold of his head with one hand and slammed it against the wall of the building.

I let go as a glint of steel caught my eye, the fourth assailant had closed the distance much faster than I'd anticipated. His movements were also smoother than the others, more practised. I wondered if he'd trained for this very moment. The thought was almost flattering. Still, I couldn't keep this duel going for too long or someone might notice the brawl and I'd rather not go through that kind of hassle.

I dropped my guard a fraction and, to his credit, the kid noticed it and jumped on it in a heartbeat. I felt the blade slice across the skin of my right forearm, the sight of my blood seemed to excite the kid and it was then that he made the opening I'd needed. I stepped inside his attack and hammered his solar plexus as hard as I could manage. The blow winded him and the knife dropped from his hand. I caught it before it hit the floor – didn't want the blood staining the blade giving me away.

The last guy came at me with a vengeance, and the sheer bloodlust that emanated from the boy almost threw me off-balance. He bellowed something in his native tongue, which roughly translated as 'may God immolate your immortal soul for an eternity'. Unfortunately for him, my distraction was momentary, and he was far too enraged to take advantage of the lull, or even notice it in the first place.

He ran face-first into my fist, pitching him off his feet. I didn't give him time to recover. Two stomps and he drifted into unconsciousness. I'd have taken a knife and finished them all off then and there but the place was still bustling and there had been enough noise. Muttering expletives under my breath I resolved to check out of the hotel and catch the next flight out of Afghanistan as soon as I was able.

I was stopped by the sound of movement deeper into the alleyway.

_Aw hell…_

I sighed and raised my hands in surrender.

'All right, I know how this might look to you, but they attacked me fir–' I stopped. What I had assumed was simply a curious bystander or simple passer-by was actually a man decked out in tan combat gear. He had a pistol pointed at my head, the same make as the gun one of those gangers had tried to use.

I made no attempt to move, at this distance it was simply a case of him pulling the trigger and me praying it would at least be quick. That didn't happen though. What did happen was a large blur landed in the middle of the alley just as the spook pulled the trigger, throwing up dust and filling my eyes and throat. I hacked and sputtered, wiping my eyes, no clue what the hell was going on. A heavy crunch reverberated throughout the space. Fighting down my rising panic at my lack of sight and breath as well as the possibility of an unknown hostile, I took a tentative step backwards towards the street.

The dust cleared and I found Claire Eckhart standing before me, the red gauntlet of her IS unit deployed and the soldier about to put me down was sprawled across the ground. I felt myself shiver involuntarily. The skirmish I'd had with the American IS all that time ago was permanently etched into my memory and in all honesty, I had little desire to be anywhere near one of those lethal machines, even if one of them had just saved my bacon.

Claire opened her IS' hand and let the body drop to the floor with a dull thump. The head was entirely crushed; gruesome way to go. I'd never have thought someone who looked like she did would be able to commit such an act, but did it she had, and without even a second of hesitation. She'd clearly seen action before.

'Come with me if you want to live,' Claire said.

'I'm sorry?'

She stared at me for a few seconds before a grin broke out on her face and she started laughing. It was mildly unsettling to see this beautiful creature display such mirth while standing over a body, even if I was fairly certain that her victim was still breathing.

'Sorry, sorry, I've always wanted to say that to someone,' she calmed herself down and fixed her features into a more serious visage.

'Seriously though, there are five others around, one in a vantage point with a sniper rifle that's been trained on you the whole time just in case the main team fails.'

That confirmed it.

'Assassins then? I'm used to dealing with those,' I motioned towards the unconscious Afghani kids.

'Even Special Forces? Like say… the SAS?'

I'm fairly certain my core body temperature dropped below zero for a moment there. I was in no doubts as to my capabilities; I was more than good, and I'd thought one time that there was none who could match me.

A brief tango in the Balkans with a four man team of Britain's best showed me just how wrong I was. Well-armed and exceptionally well-trained, the Special Air Service had a reputation that was more than deserved. Out of the ten man unit I'd been a part of, only three of us had survived the ensuing battle with them, and one had bled to death shortly after we beat our retreat.

I shook my head. I knew what she was trying to do.

The first syllable had barely left my mouth before she cut me off.

'To hell with it,' she said, and before I knew what was going on I was doubled up on the ground with her standing over me. A gauntlet took hold of me and the next thing I knew we were airborne, her IS fully deployed and sailing through the air.

'Is this a kidnapping?' I wheezed when my breath started to come back. I suppressed another shiver, we were travelling at well over a hundred kilometres an hour and, unlike Claire in her fancy machine, I had no protection from the biting wind and the air that whipped past us.

'It's an act of charity,' Claire replied, 'you can pay me back by taking the job you were offered by Reynard.'

'I'll think about it,' I replied, my teeth starting to chatter. It really was a bloody cold business this flying.

'Okay.'

With that, she suddenly stopped and I was plummeting earthwards. I didn't dignify her with a scream, though it was more surprise that kept me from shouting out.

It's funny how our heads work. As I fell I didn't reflect on the life I've led and wonder what I'd do differently if I could do it all over again, nor did I think about life after death, or reincarnation, or my dear old dad, who'd tried his best to raise a good kid the days he wasn't so exhausted from work. I just wondered if it would hurt in the brief instant between contact with the pavement and my organs pulping and my skin rupturing.

'Thought enough yet?' I heard Claire shout. The cheeky bitch was following me as I fell! Just out of arms reach but close enough that I could hear her shout over the parting air.

'Fuck you!' I yelled at her, just making myself heard over the roaring wind.

'Bad answer Elliot,' she replied, shaking her head, arms folded. She craned her head so that she was looking down upon the quickly approaching ground, 'you know; that pavement's really not getting any softer.'

To hell with it, this really wasn't worth arguing over.

'Fine! I'll do it!' I said.

'Good to hear,' she said cheerily as she flew closer to me and took me in the thick, metal gauntlets of her IS, 'now hold on.'

'To wha–' I never got to finish as she suddenly accelerated with such force it quite literally stole my breath. The G-Forces were so intense I'm amazed I didn't pass out; especially when she flipped herself around, taking us up into the air and not towards a messy death on the ground (or a mildly uncomfortable crash in her case).

We landed at an airstrip roughly fifteen minutes later, where a private plane was preparing for take-off. As I'd guessed, Reynard was waiting there with an amused grin that I really wanted to wipe off his face.

'Apologies for what you went through Mr. Grayson. I'd told Claire to act on her discretion but I had no idea she'd actually coerce–'

'You mean threaten, surely,' I growled. I wasn't happy, not in the slightest, and as soon as I was out of Claire Eckhart's sights then I was skipping town.

'I'm sorry, you can rest assured it won't happen again,' I wished I could believe him. Actually not really; for all I knew this guy had ordered the entire event and was playing games.

I rubbed a hand through my dirty-blond hair and sighed heavily.

'Doesn't matter. Let's just go to wherever and get this over with.'

A wide smile spread across Reynard's face.

'Excellent! I can't promise you won't regret it, but I'm certain you'll find it… interesting,' he gave Claire a look, 'will you be joining us inside?'

'Nah,' Claire said, shaking her head, 'I think I'll fly on ahead and see if I can't roll out the welcome mat.'

'Excellent idea, we'll see you there. Let us know when you arrive, won't you?'

'Sure thing,' and with that she turned and deployed her IS – a sleek, white machine with scarlet streaks. Her boosters roared into life, powering her into the sky and by the time Reynard and I embarked on the plane, Claire Eckhart was a speck on the horizon.

'Incredible machines aren't they?' Reynard said as he took a seat opposite mine, taking note of the direction of my gaze. I merely grunted in reply.

'Though I suppose you know all about that; having tangoed with one of them, having beaten one of them.'

I shot him a withering look. If I'd known what I'd have gotten myself into all that time ago I'd have never agreed to take the job and maybe some other poor sap would be in my shoes. Or maybe the American IS would simply have killed everyone and that would be the end of the story.

The plane rises into the air, I swallow until my ears pop and the pressure in my head relieves itself, staring outside the window until we're so high up that even the ground is barely visible. Out of boredom, I turn my attention towards the interior of the plane.

It's luxuriously spacious, with a crimson red carpet that, even through the soles of my boots, feels silky smooth. A large flat screen television adorns one part of the wall and I realise now that the seats in the plane allow you to swivel, so that in the event all the seats are filled (which wouldn't be difficult to do, there being only eight seats in the passenger compartment), everyone might be able to watch it.

It's so frivolous it's almost sickening. Reynard removes his shades, revealing emerald eyes so green you could almost mistake them for gems. He's observing me quite intently, like I'm a laboratory specimen that intrigues him. He kept the creep act up for almost five minutes before pulling a laptop out from a pocket at the side of his chair and opening it up, typing steadily.

Roughly seven hours later he stopped typing and peered out of the window, and the corner of his lips stretched into a soft grin.

'Well Mr. Grayson, here we are.'

Curious, I peek outside, and my heart sank almost instantly.

'We claimed this piece of estate roughly four months ago. Lovely piece of land: lush green jungle, warm climate, and – best of all – well away from prying eyes,' he cast me a wry glance, 'Welcome to Stone Island, one of the largest isles in the Pacific Ocean, and centre of our operations for Project Vulkan.'

_Did he just say the Pacific Ocean?_

I angled myself to give the best view of the surrounding area. Indeed, there was a sizeable island with a stretch of runway and nothing but deep, blue ocean extending as far as the eye could see.

'Oh balls,' I breathed to myself.

Looks like I'm going to need an escape plan…

**-X-**

**Happy New Year.**


	3. Vulkan

**Project Vulkan**

**Chapter Three: Vulkan**

We stepped off the plane and onto a landing strip. As soon as I was out of the cool, air conditioned plane interior the outside heat hit me like a wave. I didn't mind too much, humid heat was a thousand times worse than the dry heat of this Stone Island place. Even here though, in the middle of the island I could smell the sea. It made me think of other warm places, and usually when I think of warm places I drift right back to Afghanistan. God I hate that place.

At the bottom of the staircase was Claire Eckhart, now dressed in a thin cream blouse and a denim short skirt, along with a troupe of other people in various states of dress; most of them were casual, one or two were in suits.

Claire gave an exaggerated bow as we stepped onto the asphalt.

'Signori saluti, spero vi sia piaciuto il tuo volo.' She said, almost like a native speaker, even covering for her distinctive twang, which, as a fellow multilingual, I know for a fact is hard to do. I didn't speak Italian, but I recognised saluti, which was 'greetings'.

Much to my chagrin, while I was figuring out the dialogue Reynard didn't miss a beat and answered, 'È andato tutto bene, il cibo era un po 'fuori comunque.'

Claire nodded and gave me a sly grin. I resisted the urge to flip her off, settling for a frown instead.

'Oh don't look like that,' she chirped as Reynard disappeared into the small crowd of people who began talking business which might as well have been another language for all I understood of it. 'Come on, you can't tell me the flying part wasn't fun.'

'What about the part where you dropped me about a thousand feet above ground?' I shot back. She put a hand over her chest and gave a mock gape.

She didn't answer, instead gently shaking her hips from side to side like a child and studying me for a moment before turning on her heel and following Reynard's group. She turned her head towards me and motioned for me to follow with a finger. On any other woman it would have been seductive, on her; with that glint in her eyes, it just made her look cheeky. Growling in frustration; I stalked after her and her boss.

**-X-**

The facility looked more like a luxury hotel. Gleaming white and recently built to give it a smooth, sleek, modern look. Claire must have noticed my appraisal because she sauntered closer.

'That's not where they conduct the work. That's just living quarters for the staff.'

I grunted in acknowledgement, though I have to say the idea of spending some time here didn't sound so bad. All right Reynard you've scored a few points. Still going to look for an exit though.

'Wouldn't think about reneging on our deal either big guy,' she said as she stretched her arms behind her head, arching her back and squeezing her eyes shut. 'Lot of open water and I don't think I need to tell you my machine's a thousand times faster than anything you'll find on this place. With that and all the equipment Stonewall has in its pocket, locating you would be a snap,' she punctuated by snapping her fingers.

'Wouldn't dream of it,' I said, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

I decided to put my great escape plan on the backburner for now. Maybe wait a couple of days for them to let their guard down. Until then, I might as well see what it is they wanted me for.

The interior of the building really did look like a hotel. Maybe it was designed that way on purpose; I know I'd certainly feel more relaxed and taken care of if I lived in a luxurious place like this close to my workplace. Big fancy foyer, desk manned by a man and woman in dark green uniform and matte-black berets that I recognised as belonging to the Private Military Contractor 'Jacqhammer'. I'd both run with and tangoed with them a number of times in the last couple of years. I was far from impressed. Most of them were dumb kids who grew up with nothing on their combat record besides the last Call of Duty VR-game and the wash-outs from various militaries who made me look sane by comparison. They sold their services at dirt cheap prices compared to more 'respectable' firms and they had an open door policy so ridiculously wide you couldn't fill it with all the boots on earth. As far as I was concerned not one of them had any business being within a mile of a loaded weapon.

Further compounding my dislike of them was the fact I'd also had the displeasure of meeting the boss lady Jacqueline Munroe herself, one of very few people who could probably eat me for breakfast and still have plenty of room for elevenses afterwards. Unpleasant is a bitter understatement where that snake is concerned. Greedy to a fault, sharper than a whole field of razors, and, unlike any of her subordinates, an exceedingly deadly fighter. If she wanted she could have made a killing in any other PMC or as a solitary contractor herself but she established her own firm instead. Probably figured she'd get a greater dividend that way.

'You sure about leaving security to those clowns?' I whispered to Claire, nodding towards the hired 'help', who hadn't paid the slightest attention to us strolling in and were chatting and joking with each other like they hadn't even started boot camp yet. None of them had probably ever been either; the oldest of the two looked like he was barely out of his teens.

'Oh they're just for show; company paid them double their asking fee for these goons to set up shop here, look pretty and not ask a damn question. Stonewall's got its own private security force residing in the facility itself.'

I observed the Jacqhammer goons for another moment before grunting in disapproval and turning my gaze away from the meat shields. We passed through a double door and entered a hall. Another set of double doors lay to our left and through the glass I could see a large conference table which Reynard sat at the head of, with an entirely different troupe to the one he'd greeted at the landing strip seated all around. Claire motioned for me to enter, so I did, with her not two steps behind me.

'Ah, Mr Grayson, Ms Eckhart,' Reynard said, greeting us with a courteous nod of his head. The plonker still wore his shades. I tried to give my friendliest smile, which probably looked more like an aggressive sneer than anything else and didn't seem to win me any friends in this bunch, so I stopped after a few seconds.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' Reynard addressed the men and women seated at the table, 'may I present to you the specialist I was talking about – Mr Elliot Grayson.'

Silence followed. I could feel the stares of more than a dozen individuals who probably held more power and influence than a dog of war like me could ever dream of.

'Are you sure he's suitable?' A rakishly thin middle-aged Chinese woman asked, adjusting her spectacles on the bridge of her nose.

'Trust me Madam Lao; out of all the candidates we surveyed, he is without doubt the most suited for the project.' Reynard assured her.

'What about his file? I can't imagine a man with his… history would be the most… stabilising of elements.' Said a short, balding French man in a suit with a forehead like a coffee table. Uh, I'm standing right here arsehole.

'I understand your point Mr Moreau but I…' he cast a sideways glance at me, '_we_ can assure you that there will not be any problems with his professional standing once the project is fully underway, am I right Elliot?' He used my first name this time, probably wanted to establish a sense of trust. Sorry mate, not until I've got a better idea of what I'm walking into.

'Depends if anyone makes trouble for me,' I replied, letting a sour note creep into my voice. I heard Claire exhale softly; several of the seated individuals began murmuring to themselves.

'His file's not half the problem. He's too damn young!' An American man in a stiff collared army green shirt and dark trousers stood up, slamming a hand on the table. Guy practically screamed 'military'. I was curious as to what an American officer was doing here but kept my thoughts to myself.

'Give me the word Reynard and I'll fly over some of the best damned instructors the world has ever–'

'I appreciate the gesture, Colonel, but it won't be necessary,' Reynard cut him off. 'Besides, we don't want your government asking questions we can't afford to answer now can we?'

A Yank Colonel eh? Look of the old 'fire and brimstone' about him too, the type that think any problem can be solved with the right application of high explosive ordnance. He sank back into his seat and shot me a withering glance. I was totally feeling the love here.

'Sure know how to make a guy feel welcome here don't they?' I muttered, half-talking to Claire.

'You should have seen them when _I _walked in through the door,' she murmured in reply. She sounded sincere. Must have been grim.

'At any rate, the decision has been made. My boss – your employer – gave me almost complete control over this little shindig we have here so what I say, goes. I say we need the best, and here he is,' Reynard spoke affluently, motioning in my direction. A weaker sort would be flattered. Guess that means I'm not as tough as I make myself out to be sometimes, because I was actually. Much as I still didn't want to be here, it felt good seeing that Yank's face stiffen like he'd been dipped in starch. Suck on that General Ripper.

'Well, at least he has experience,' someone else at the table – I didn't see who – muttered. Experience with what? I caught the word 'instructor' earlier, and if these people have checked on my background they should know I was never a teacher of any sort. Experience in death dealing? Sure, why not, but they could have picked up almost any schmuck if they want killers. My mind wandered uncomfortably to Claire Eckhart and her IS. Reynard said they had told the Aussies that Stonewall was developing experimental IS tech, which was a fabrication but what if it was closer to the mark than I thought? I mean, what other kind of technology is even worth all the secrecy?

I blanked out the rest of the meeting, a droll, dreary half hour of talking figures, shipments and personnel I probably should have paid attention to but didn't. I was a little too engrossed in thinking and overthinking what the deal with this place was, so much so that Claire had to give me a nudge when it was over.

'Yeah, I get like that too at these things,' she said softly. 'Never understand a thing they say. Ask me about the flight dynamics of my IS and I can give you an essay but all these people all talking business talk at once?' She snorted and shook her head derisively before stepping out as everyone at the table, Reynard included, began to stand up and gradually file out of the conference room until it was just me and Reynard left. He fixed me with a blank stare, behind his damn shades I couldn't tell what he was thinking.

Finally he picked himself out of the chair at the head of the large table. 'Follow me Elliot,' he said. Not really having much else to do, I obliged. He took me on a tour of the building; entered me into the mainframe as one of the staff, showed me the facilities which included a fairly sized pool, a gym, several lounges with various entertainment devices such as televisions, games consoles, a snooker table or two, even a spa, and, finally the expansive cafeteria. Finally he showed me my room, which was at the top of nineteen floors, and handed me two keycards.

'Don't lose them,' he said wryly, 'they're pretty expensive to replace.'

Lose just the one then, I affirmed in my head. It was petty but after what I'm all but certain this guy had put me through in Afghanistan by way of one Australian IS pilot I was feeling pretty immature and any kind of 'screw you' to the guy seemed like a good idea to me at the time. I made a move to open the door but he stopped me.

'Sorry Elliot, you can come back when I show you just what we're doing here and – more crucially – what you'll be working with.' I raised a brow but didn't say anything. Bout time I got some solid answers. We took a trip to the ground floor, and took a trip down a pretty nondescript corridor. Curiously enough I noticed it was the only corridor with no cameras, ugly black bulbs that seemed to hang from the ceilings like a limpet. I corrected myself as I remembered where exactly I was and who I was working for; no _visible _cameras.

'Picked up on that did you?' He didn't sound surprised in the slightest. Glad I could live up to expectations buddy. I gave him a grunt in affirmative. He just smirked and stopped outside what looked like a broom cupboard. I almost had to reach up to my head to stop my eyeballs from rolling out of their sockets.

'Really?' I asked him. Reynard gave me a shit eating grin.

'Oh yeah,' he said with an enthusiastic nod.

He opened the broom cupboard, sifted a few cleaning supplies out of the way and pushed lightly against a section of wall perpendicular to the right wall. Sure enough a hidden key panel was revealed.

'Watch closely now,' Reynard said as he moved his hand closer to the panel, 'you'll need to remember this yourself and we aren't in the habit of writing it down.'

He tapped in five digits. 6-1-9-4-8. Seconds later – hey presto – the wall slid open and we stepped into an elevator. Of the four options (Ground, 1, 2 and 3) Reynard punched in the fourth as our destination and suddenly the elevator door slid shut and we were dropping at a rate that made me stumble.

'Don't worry about the acceleration, it gets pretty much everyone,' Reynard said. Bastard looked entirely comfortable and I hadn't heard any sort of warning from him. I guess it was mostly harmless, but the ghost of the smirk on the corner of his lip only made me want to punch him.

We stood the rest of the trip in silence until finally a _ding _filled the enclosed space and the doors opened and I stepped into… into…

'So how about it eh Elliot?' Reynard said, stepping in front of me before spreading his arms dramatically. 'Welcome to the centre of the Earth. Or – as some like to call it – The Pit.'

Pit was misleading. The place was a massive open space easily larger than an Olympic stadium. The rock underneath the island had been carved away, the rock covered up with strong, shining metal alloys I couldn't name if I had a periodic table and an entire week. Giant, gargantuan supports held the ceiling up high and various structures dotted the space. All this was pretty eye-catching, but it wasn't what currently had me slack jawed.

Eventually I finally regained control of myself. 'Is that what I–'

'No,' Reynard answered instantly. 'Elliot, allow me to introduce to you the twentieth of twenty-four prototypes. _This _is what we are working on here.'

The machine before me was twice the size of a man, if that man was also seven feet tall. Thick, bulky armour plating covered it from head to toe, in dark military green and matte-black. It looked almost like a miniature Transformer; or a mechanical Germanic knight of old. A large, long-barrelled rifle was clutched in one hand and the cockpit was open, exposing a deceptively comfortable-looking pilot's seat and four slots in two pairs, with each pair located and elbow and knee height, which was likely how it was operated. Were it not for the obvious vacancy of the pilot, I'd almost have thought the humanoid mech was standing at attention.

'Elliot Greyson, allow me to formally introduce you to Project Vulkan,' with that he turned to me and flashed another winning smile.

'Welcome aboard.'

**-X-**

**Not really much to say here aside from the fact that, no, I **_**don't**_** speak Italian and had to run it through a translator. If it's wrong and any of you can correct me, please, by all means, do so.**

**Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed this moderately sized chapter. Reading is appreciated, reviews are welcome, and constructive criticism even more so.**

**Cheers**


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